Achilles Is Dead
by Suki
Summary: The bearer of bad news is one who rides on the waves. [Peleus x Thetis]


**Achilles Is Dead**

They called me the Silver-footed because I would ride the shining foam of the waves in the dim hour before dawn, before even the Sun-lord returned from his nightly bathe, driving the unquenchable flames of his smoldering chariot above the line of the sea. I belonged to no one.

My feet are no longer light, and my soul will never again be my own.

Through quiet marbled corridors, passing dimly gleaming treasures and paintings as bright as birds, I go to him. I pass through the gilded doors without a sound. In the elegant chamber, draped with finery, and warmed by a crackling fire, a lonely old man leans heavily against the windowsill, shoulders hunched.

"Peleus."

He turns slowly, and the flames cast shadows into the crevices of his face. He waits.

"Our son is dead."

For a time, there is no reaction. Then, slowly, his head falls forward. A shaking hand rises and steadies it.

"He died honorably. The gods pay their respects to him."

He laughs bitterly, shocking me. "Leave the gods their respect. I have seen what their respect brings."

My voice rises, strong like the vaulted ceilings of Poseidon's temples. Deep as the ocean. "Do not scorn the gods!" I warn.

But he does not back down. He speaks to me with all the authority of a man over his wife. "Could you not defend him against such a fate?"

I blanch, to my horror. Goddesses do not blanch.

"I tried," I cry vehemently, "but you tore him from the fire before the ritual was completed!"

"What was I to assume?" he counters. "I enter my chamber to find the mother of my only son throwing him into the hearth like a piece of meat!"

"I would not have done it if it could have harmed him."

Peleus moves around me and sinks into a low, gold-armed chair. His cheeks are sallow, and purple seeps beneath his eyes. Time has battered him. He looks up at me, eyes trembling. "You left me in anger."

I sigh. "The gods never dictated how long I should stay."

He waves his hand, dismissing the conversation. "Anyway," he says, and his voice sounds far away, as if traveling from a great distance. "I knew I could never keep you. You were out of place here, like a passing vision. It was only a matter of time." Suddenly, he looks up at me, eyes trembling. Almost timidly, he asks, "Did . . . did I drive you away?"

I take my time responding. Slowly, "No. I was looking for an excuse."

"Were you that unhappy here?"

"I . . .." I feel the guilt rise in my chest. Once, such a sensation was unknown to me. "I missed the rocking and the wetness of the sea. I missed sitting at my father's feet and singing with my forty-nine sisters. I missed riding the waves . . .." Then, tenderly, placing a palm to his bent shoulder, "It was no fault of yours."

His hand, once so familiar, looks foreign and withered, as he brings it up shakingly to rest on top of mine.

I say, "My grandfather once prophesied that my sister would marry a god and bid her stay away from the wandering eye of Zeus. She fled to the house of Lord Poseidon and took refuge. I will never forget the day of their wedding. It was the day the King first laid eyes on me."

"He wanted _you_," he states bluntly.

"He did. But he gave me to you, in an attempt to render Themis's prophesy unfulfilled. Only, it came true."

"What was the prophesy?" he asks me, his voice lifting slightly in curiosity.

"That the son whom I conceived should become greater than his father."

I do not miss how his eyes flicker.

I bend low and confess, "I took him once, you know."

"Achilleus?"

"When he was small. I dipped him in the river Styx. It made him invincible."

Peleus gazes at me, face gaunt and solemn.

"I dipped him by his heel. I – I didn't," my nose tickles, and my throat constricts. Before I can stop it, the salty water is on my face, tasting for all the world like the spray of the ocean. They say that mortals have salty tears, too.

Peleus stands, and gingerly places his arms around me. He smells of cloves. His worn cheek rests on mine. It is true. Men do cry tears of the sea.

"How could I know that every inch of his body must be covered?"

We stand like this for some time. When he finally leans back from me, the Virgin has long since dipped below the dark horizon.

He asks me, quietly, not looking at my face, "Are you sorry you came?"

I close my eyes. Behind them, I see my son, golden and strong. He is small again and running to me, arms thrown open to my embrace.

"No," I answer, and my voice is firm.

He reclines once more in his chair, leaning his head back heavily. A sudden weight has come on him. He sleeps, and I stand next to him, by his side the entire night, fending off evil dreams and listening to the sound of time, rushing away like a river.


End file.
